[Stop Staring At Me]

She’s making pie crust and she can feel Carlisle looking at her but it’s something she’s accustomed to. She knows sometimes he likes to watch her without any expectations. She slices the mangos and lays them neatly into the pie crust then sprinkles flour and sugar over the top. Pats of butter come next and then rum. She carefully lays the top crust over it and cuts a delicate flower into the top to vent it. The whole thing gets brushed with egg yolk and put into the over. It’s not until she sets the timer that she feels Carlisle move toward her, his hands brushing aside her hair so that his lips can tickle along her neck. A laugh trickles out of her and she turns in his arms, her lips pressing against his.

“I thought you were just going to watch today,” she tells him.

“If you’d rather…” he trails off, quirking one eyebrow up at her.

“No,” she says quietly, firmly as she goes on tiptoe, pressing her lips against his. “All the kids are out and I think perhaps we have some time to ourselves. The pie won’t be ready for half an hour.”

“That doesn’t give us much time,’ Carlisle whispers against her lips.

“No but it does give us just enough time for you to stop staring at me, Carlisle Cullen and do something about it.”

{Consequence}

She was alive when they rolled her into the morgue. She was alive and shattered at the same time. Lying in the morgue, waiting for true death, she wasn’t certain which was more painful: the emotional pain of losing her child or the physical pain the jump had wrought. It was supposed to kill her and take away the pain losing her son had brought on.

Can’t even kill yourself properly but then they’ll allow anyone to become a mother.

The agony came in waves, shattering her thoughts and dashing them just as her body had been dashed at the cliff foot below. Each move, each jostle brought new torment that she endured in silence because it paled in comparison to the pain that had driven her over the cliff. Hands were rough, voices were loud; she was dead and the dead have little care for tenderness.

Time passed in phases of dark and light, breath so shallow it is unnoticeable. She was aware of new hands, gentle hands that skimmed over her skin with a delicateness unparalleled. Fingertips pressed to her pulse, an sharp intake of breath (his, not hers) and then lips grazing against her skin. A kiss at first then something sharper. There was a new pain, deeper than the one before, overriding everything else. There was only a dim awareness of movement and change of scenery.

She was reborn days later with a gasp of unneeded breath and a body whole. All physical pain replaced with grace, awe and thirst. He fed her thirst, slacked it and honed it with the same delicate tenderness he’d handled her in near-death. It took longer to get over her child but pain like that can’t exist alongside love like his and eventually there were only impressionist memories and hazy feelings. She couldn’t remember why she’d jumped after awhile and then he walked into the room and reminded her.
She’d jumped for him.